The Final Frontier
by drakien
Summary: There's a killer on the loose...and why are the victims all wearing red shirts?
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Final Frontier

Author: drakien

Rating: T+ for language

Spoilers: None

Note #1: I offer this up in honor of Michael Dorn's birthday…which was December 9th, and yes I am late. If you don't know who Michael Dorn is, you should probably stop reading now.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything talked about in this story…nothing at all! sobs

A/N: This one just kind of snuck up on me…wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it (though school tried valiantly to interfere). I would like to warn people that it would be best to pop this story and add butter before reading, as some of it strikes even the author as exceptionally corny. Apologies in advance, but take it for what it is and have fun!

I live for reviews. They make my day, and with the Semester from Hell (Evolution & Ecology…kill me now, Microbiology, Biochem 2, and a Genetics lab to TA), I'll need all the emotional support I can get!

Oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

He came to slowly, disoriented and not yet aware that these were the last moments of his existence. The last thing he remembered was coming home from the party. He had had a few too many drinks, and had decided to walk the short distance back to his hotel. Nature had called about halfway there, and he had stepped into a side alley to relieve himself. He remembered unzipping, and then everything went black.

His head was pounding, and it wasn't until he tried to reach up and rub his eyes that he realized he was tied up. Panicking, he pulled uselessly against the restraints. He almost jumped out of his skin when a voice sounded from behind him.

"Struggling will only make it hurt more."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I am the hand of Justice," the disembodied replied. "Here to avenge those whom you have wronged."

"What the hell are you talking about," he exclaimed, fear making his voice quaver. "I haven't done anything!"

There was silence behind him, and then the breath was driven from his body as pain radiated from his back. There was a tearing feeling, and then another fiery burst erupted from the other side of his body, this time lower than the first. The pain was indescribable. He caught sight of a shadowy figure entering his field of view before everything went black.

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"I've got a hair," Greg said with a hint of triumph.

"Bag it," Grissom replied. "Sara, anything?"

"Doesn't look like the door was forced," she said absently. "Maybe he knew his assailant?"

Grissom frowned as he lifted a crumbled up rag out of the trash. He carefully sniffed it, eyes going wide as he recognized the scent. "Or maybe he was unconscious," he said. Sara and Greg turned to look. "Chloroform," Grissom said.

Greg nodded. "There's some kind of stain on the pants near the victim's groin. Looks like urine, but I'll confirm that once we get back to the lab."

"Good," Grissom said. He frowned when his phone rang. He listened for a moment, and then replied, "We'll be right there." He hung up the phone and looked up at Greg and Sara. "There's been another murder. I'll call Nick and Warrick over to finish processing here...let's go."

Oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

From the next crime scene, they had been called out to two additional homicides. As soon as they saw the bodies, everyone knew they had a serial killer on their hands. Each scene had been a near carbon copy of the previous one. There was not much evidence left behind, but they collected what they could and made their way back.

"All right Greggo, play it out for me," Sara instructed. They were in one of the layout rooms going over the evidence.

"Four men dead. All the same age, but from four different states. It seems too coincidental that they were all here on vacation at the same time, so maybe it was some event brought them to Vegas?"

"Good," Sara said. "Go on."

"Well, they were all found tied to a chair, stabbed twice in the back with some kind of knife. Their tongues were cut out too."

"Why?" Sara asked.

"To shut them up, maybe?" Greg put out tentatively.

"Could be," Sara said. "What about the evidence?"

"I can't figure it out," he said. "The chloroform rag was found at each scene, so I think it's safe to say that it was how our killer overpowered each victim. But the rest of the stuff? I mean, we find a long black synthetic hair at one scene, a boot print that doesn't match anything in the database, some kind of metal ring with a piece of black leather attached, and brown grease paint. So how is it all connected?"

"I don't know," Sara admitted, her frustration evident. "Let's see what we can find out about the victims. Maybe it will make more sense in context."

"Yeah," Greg said with a sigh. "I'll let you know what I find."

It was only about an hour later when Sara was paged. When she finally tracked Greg down, he was hunched over a keyboard.

"Got something?" she asked.

"Yeah," Greg said. "All four of our victims were on the football team at Las Vegas High School back in 1985. They were in town for their 20-year reunion."

"Then maybe these killings were personal," Sara mused. "Someone who knew the victims, most likely, and maybe someone who held a grudge."

"I think the killer is probably local, too."

"What makes you say that," Sara wanted to know.

"Well," Greg explained, "If he wasn't, then these guys would have probably been whacked before now. It would make sense that the reunion probably brought back all kinds of memories, and provided an opportunity."

"Okay," Sara said. "So let's look at the class rosters from 1982 to 1988. That should cover anyone who may have known our victims."

"Okay," Greg drawled, tapping some keys. When the query results were returned, he let out a low whistle. "Two thousand and ninety-six names."

"Let's narrow that down to people who are still living in Vegas," Sara instructed. "Plus, our killer is most likely male."

"Male Vegas dwellers," Greg repeated. He paused, and then reported the results. "Down to two hundred and thirty-three."

Sara winced. "That's still a damn big list."

"Okay," Greg acknowledged. "Let's take a step back away from the science…who would be holding a grudge against a group of jocks?"

Both were silent for a minute.

"Geeks!" they exclaimed simultaneously.

"Okay, let me sort the list by GPA…we've got 15 people with a 3.5 GPA or better," Greg said.

They both hunched over the monitor, looking through the list of names.

"Francis Langley?" Sara said. "Seymour Johnson? Who the hell gives a kid a name like that?"

"Not me, man" Greg replied. "Those are names that say 'Beat me up and take my lunch money'."

"Well, fifteen people," Sara said with a sigh. "If we split it up, we should be done quicker."

"You got it, boss," Greg said with a smirk.

"Smartass," she said, grinning. "Catch up with me when you get back…we'll compare notes and see if there are any leads."

Greg nodded, then frowned as he looked over the photos of the victims.

"What?" Sara asked.

"What were the school colors for Las Vegas High?"

"Umm…." Sara said as she flipped through her notes. "Red and black. Why?"

"Oh, no reason, really," Greg said with a shrug. "I just noticed that all of our victims were wearing red shirts. But since they were at their reunion, I guess that makes sense."

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Greg sighed as he knocked on the final door on his list. He'd been awake now for over 30 hours, and it was beginning to take its toll. After only a few seconds, a small man answered the door. He was physically unimpressive, and wore the thickest glasses Greg had ever seen. Behind him, Greg noticed that the house was decorated eccentrically, with posters of UFOs, the infamous Nessie and Bigfoot pictures (both of which were reported to be hoaxes), along with other strange paraphernalia strewn around. After asking the man, Francis Langley, about his whereabouts at the times of the murders, as well as a few other questions, Greg thanked him for his time and headed back to the lab. Maybe Sara had had better luck.

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"Anything?" Greg wanted to know when they met up.

"Not really. One guy was a real nutjob…our Seymour Johnson. The entire house was covered in tinfoil, but he had an alibi. How about you?"

"Nothing concrete," he replied, "but boy are there some interesting people living in Vegas."

Sara nodded, and was about to reply when her pager went off. She read the screen, then looked up with a renewed sense of purpose. "Grissom just paged. Robbins finally got done with the bodies and has a report for us."

"I guess we'd better get going then," Greg replied, enthusiasm evident.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Final Frontier

See Chapter 1 for the shiny disclaimer  
Chapter 2 Morgue

* * *

"What's up, Doc?" Greg quipped as he and Sara joined Grissom and Chief Medical Examiner Al Robbins. Sara rolled her eyes, while Grissom looked slightly puzzled.

"How original, Greg," Robbins replied dryly. Gesturing to the four drawers he had pulled out, he got back to the case. "Interesting bodies you guys sent me."

"How so?" Grissom asked.

"The stab wounds," Robbins replied. Limping around to the side of one of the bodies, he rolled it over with Grissom's help. "About all I can tell you is that they were made by some sort of knife. It appears to have had multiple serrated edges…there was an impressive amount of soft tissue damage."

"Was there any way to tell if it was the same knife used in each case?" Sara wanted to know.

"Funny you should ask that," Robbins replied. "Aside from the distinctive wound pattern, I found flakes of some kind of metal in all of the wound tracts. I sent them up to Trace for you."

Sara nodded. "Anything else?"

Robbins shook his head. "Just that the tongues were severed post-mortem…I suspect that the same weapon was used; I found the same metal flakes in the mouth."

"Thanks, Al," Grissom said. He looked at Greg and Sara. "Shall we go and see if Hodges has come up with anything?"

Greg nodded, but he got no response from Sara, who had moved over to the body to more closely examine the knife wound. "Sara?" Grissom called.

"Huh? Oh, sorry Griss. I'll meet you guys up there in a minute…I just want a closer look here, if that's okay?"

Grissom nodded, and he and Greg left.

Oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Trace had revealed that the silvery flakes found on the bodies were a metal commonly used to coat cheaply-made knives. Hodges was still in the middle of his brown-nosing when Sara slammed through the doors. Shooting him a glance that would melt steel, she pinned Greg and Grissom. "I need to talk to you both. Now." Without saying anything else, she spun and stalked off.

Slightly taken aback by her change of attitude, Grissom shot an uneasy glance at Greg, though both men followed her down the hall. When they caught up with her, she was in the layout room, pacing. And she was angry.

As a precaution, Grissom closed the door to contain the conversation.

"If what I'm about to tell you gets out to the rest of the lab, you have my word that I will personally kill you and hide your bodies," Sara said quietly. "And I'll get away with it. Are we clear?"

Grissom and Greg shared an uneasy look.

Sara planted her hands on the table in front of her and took a deep breath. "My childhood was not what you would call ideal," she began. Her gaze flicked to Grissom, then settled on Greg. "That's all I'm going to say about it right now, but understand that the circumstances of my youth would make anyone naturally lean towards fantasy as a mental escape route." She sighed. "At first, it was books…wizards, dragons, far away places…." she said, trailing off as she remembered the fantastical lands she had traveled in those years.

Shaking out of her reverie, she continued. "Anyhow, I eventually discovered Star Trek. That was the coolest thing of its day, and it was perfect. It's actually what got me interested in Physics. Anyhow, a few people I knew were a little crazy about it…going to conventions, collecting the paraphernalia, buying all of the episodes and picking them apart…that sort of thing. By the time I got to college, I had officially cemented my Geekhood by joining a KLAW."

"KLAW?" Greg asked when no other information seemed to be forthcoming. Grissom remained silent, but appeared to be slightly amused.

Sara blushed faintly. "Klingon Legion of Assault Warriors," she clarified. "I was the legion security officer. It was pretty much an excuse to hang out and show our appreciation for the show, but my security squad was a group of self-proclaimed bad-asses." She chuckled. "We thought we were cool, anyhow. My point is that all of this evidence is telling me that our killer is a Klingon, or more specifically, someone dressing up as one."

Grissom spoke for the first time. "What makes you say that?"

"Look at what we have, and put it in context. We've got a long, black synthetic hair, which is common in the wigs worn by both men and women who dress up as Klingons. At the big conventions, a lot of people will even go so far as to do the all-out costume makeup, which explains the face paint. And the boot print? You said it was leather, and not any tread that showed up in the database, right? I'd be willing to bet that it's the same leather that we found attached to that metal ring. Since you can't just go buy your clothes at Macy's, people in these circles make a lot of their own stuff. That ring is similar to the ones I used when I made my uniform back in the day."

"Wait, wait," Greg said wickedly. "You had a _uniform_?"

"Greg…" Sara said warningly. He put his hands up in surrender, though he was still grinning.

"Sorry…just…" Greg trailed off as Grissom shot him a dark look. Sara smiled faintly.

"It was the knife wounds that made the rest of the pieces fall into place," she said. "Klingon weapons tend to be a little…excessive. See, Klingons have a lot of redundant organ systems, so their weapons are designed to do a lot of damage…" She trailed off as she noticed that both men were now looking at her with nearly identical expressions of amusement. "What now?" she said crossly.

"Sara, you know I love you, but your Dork-O-Meter is going off the charts right about now." Greg said with a grin.

Sara rolled her eyes. "If it solves the case, I think my ego will survive."

"True," Grissom agreed. His face once again gave away nothing, but Sara could see that his eyes still twinkled. "So what kind of hand weapon would the modern Klingon carry these days?"

Sara eyed him for a long minute, sure he was teasing her, but he merely looked at her expectantly. Temporarily placated, she picked up the pictures of the stab wounds as she thought out loud.

"Well, most of us carried a _daqtagh_, but I don't think that matches up with what we're seeing here. It has two retractable blades at the base near the handle, which would have left two smaller punctures on either side of the primary wound site. Plus, the blade isn't serrated enough to cause that much tearing." She was silent for another moment, eyes narrowing, then nodded decisively. "Our murderer is carrying a _qutluch_," she said firmly. "It's a blade traditionally used by Klingon Assassins, and is designed to produce maximum destruction of internal organs. The razor tip creates quick access and the saw-teeth sever arteries on the knife's path in and out. It produces a very characteristic wound," she continued. "I should have seen it sooner." Sara looked pissed. "God damned coward," she muttered darkly.

"Who?" Greg asked.

"This guy," Sara said as she waved her hand over the crime scene photos spread in front of them, indicating she spoke of the killer. "He's using an assassin's blade, but all of these wounds are from behind. Among Klingons, assassination is considered an honorable death as well as an honorable profession if it is carried out according to ancient guidelines. The primary aspect of assassination is that the two parties _must_ fight face to face. Stabbing in the back or from the shadows is strictly against the code of honor. Very bad form."

"So how do we find him?" Grissom asked.

"I'd start by seeing if anyone familiar shows up on any of the Klingon club rosters," Sara suggested. "Most of them will have their membership information available online."

"Hey Sara," Greg said suddenly, remembering something. He grabbed a piece of paper and sketched out something quickly. "Does this mean anything to you?"

Sara looked at it. "Aside from confirming your lack of artistic talent? Sure." She handed the page over to Grissom. "It's the symbol of the Klingon Empire. Why?"

"It was on a wall hanging in Francis Langley's house," he replied.

Grissom turned to Greg. "You and Archie get on those rosters," he instructed. "See if he's a member of one of the local chapters, and then see if you can find out where he might be spending his free time these days."

"I'm on it," Greg promised, gathering his papers and heading off to find Archie.

Grissom sat back and appraised Sara, who was rubbing her forehead tiredly. "Good work," he said softly.

She graced him with a smile. "Thanks," she said, and then chuckled ruefully. At his questioning glance, she explained. "That was a part of my life that was long buried, Griss. I had almost forgotten how much fun we had back then."

He smiled. "Legion Security Officer, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, grinning. "So how long before everyone finds out, do you think?"

"Well," said Grissom, appearing to give the matter serious thought, "I don't think you have to worry about Greg. He's probably so blown away that he won't say a thing. And besides…who would believe him?"

Sara nodded, agreeing with him, but then eyed him suspiciously. "And you?"

"Me?" Grissom said innocently. "I'm terrified of you. Won't say a word."

Sara laughed out loud. "Terrified?" she said scoffing. "You?"

"Absolutely petrified," he said. "You might do something violent to me."

She shook her head at him as she stood up and left, but she still couldn't be sure if he was serious or not.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Final Frontier

See Chapter 1 for the shiny disclaimer

Chapter 3

* * *

Greg's search had turned up one result. Francis Langley was not only a member of one of the local Klingon clubs, but was also the point-of-contact for the Klingon contingent of the Star Trek Convention that was being held in Vegas that week. Deciding they would head over and check things out, no one appeared to notice that Sara grabbed a black duffel bag in addition to her field kit.

Grissom, Sara, and Greg had arrived at the convention site before Brass, but after waiting ten minutes they were all getting antsy. Grissom hit a button on his cell phone, and a very exasperated voice answered after two rings.

"Brass," he said.

"Jim, this is Grissom. Where are you?"

"Stuck behind an accident," the weary cop said with a sigh. "You're at the convention center?"

"Yeah. Any ideas on how long you'll be?"

"Gil, I hate to do this to you, but I'm going to have to work this accident. I may be a while."

Grissom sighed. "I understand. I've got Sara and Greg with me. I don't think we're going to run into any kind of trouble in such a public place; we're going to go have a look around and see if anyone knows how to find this guy. Just meet us inside when you're through."

"I'm sending another officer on ahead…I'll be there as soon as I can," Jim promised before hanging up.

"Looks like we're on our own for now," Grissom said. Stepping into the lobby, they were greeted by a small alien with huge ears.

"Ten dollar admission," he said in an oily voice as he eyed Sara lasciviously. "But if you leave your woman here with me, we'll call it even and you boys can go right in."

Before either man could voice any sort of protest, Sara cut them off. She stepped forward with a low growl, and leaned in to whisper something to the irritating little man. He suddenly paled and scrambled back.

"P-please enter w-with my compliments, Mistress," he stammered.

"Worm," she said disdainfully as she stalked off.

Having been briefly taken aback by the man's reaction to whatever Sara said, Grissom and Greg snapped out of their reverie and rushed to catch up with her.

"What did you say to him?" Greg wanted to know.

"Nothing much," Sara said with a shrug. "I just told him I would eviscerate him and hang him from the wall by his intestines." She ignored their shocked looks. "I hate Ferengis."

They entered the convention hall and stopped to take in their surroundings. There were booths selling every kind of Star Trek related merchandise, as well as food vendors. Grissom noticed that each group of aliens tended to gravitate to separate areas.

"I was afraid of that," Sara said as she scanned the room.

"What?" Grissom asked.

She gestured to the opposite corner. "The Klingons have congregated by the bar." She winced as a particularly raunchy comment reached her. "And from the sound of it, they've been there for a while. Getting them to talk isn't going to be easy."

They made their way across the convention hall, passing all manner of aliens and humans. Costumes ranged from the mundane to the extravagant, and Grissom was amazed at how much some of the items at the booths seemed to cost.

Reaching their destination, Grissom reached out and tapped the nearest person on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said politely. Grissom took a small step back when the person turned and he was face to face with a large man in full Klingon regalia. After looking him up and down with disgust, the Klingon snarled something and stalked off.

Grissom blinked, still processing the exchange. "That was productive."

Sara was trying to hide a smile. "It can take a certain…approach…to deal with Klingons, Griss. Especially inebriated ones."

Grissom's eyebrows ascended further up toward his hairline. He gestured to the nearby crowd. "By all means."

Sara nodded, sighing. "It was inevitable, I suppose," she said. "Stay here and keep an eye on my kit," she instructed. "Don't try talking to any more Klingons. I'll be back as fast as I can." Without further explanation she walked off into the crowd, bag slung over her shoulder. Greg, who appeared to be just as bewildered as Grissom, shrugged. They stood there in silence, neither one sure what was going on. It was not quite ten minutes later when Grissom noticed a figure making its way toward them. At first glance, it was a Klingon. Obviously female, from the amount of cleavage the uniform put on display. From what he had seen of the show, the costume was technically accurate, and the wearer even had the forehead plate, which Grissom had noticed was absent on many of the less serious convention-goers. It took Grissom a moment to realize that there was something familiar about the way the woman was walking.

"Sara!" Greg choked as she stopped in front of them. She just grinned.

"Still fits," she said smugly.

Before she could say anything further, a large hand clamped down hard on her arm. Apparently, Grissom and Greg were not the only people to witness her approach.

"Hey baby," another large and obviously drunk Klingon slurred. "Why don't you leave these puny humans alone and come hang out with a real man."

As Grissom watched, she seemed to draw herself up. The easygoing Sara he had walked in with had now faded away completely, and a sneer began to form on her face. He and Greg stood frozen as she grabbed the wrist of the hand that held her captive and swung him around to pin him against the wall.

"I see no real man here. Merely a yapping dog!" she growled. "tlhIngan Hol Dajatlh'e'?" _Do you speak Klingon?_

"nuq'neH," the man replied sullenly. _What do you want?_

"Francis Langley," she stated, not letting him up off the wall as she flashed her identification. "Where is he?"

A mostly-inebriated crowd was quickly gathering. "qaStaH nuq jay," someone shouted. _What the hell is happening!_

"yItamchoH," she ordered. _Silence!_ "We are looking for the one called Francis Langley," Sara told the masses. "Is he among your ranks?"

"Why should we tell you anything," another snarled. "You police!"

Sara stared down the speaker, and then replied in a voice that sliced through all of the remaining chatter. "DaHjaj SuvwI''e' jiH." _Today I am a warrior._

Grissom leaned over to comment softly to Greg. "Do you have any idea what they're saying?"

"Not me, man," Greg replied. "Remind me never to piss her off, though."

Another Klingon female, Sara presumed one of the leaders, stepped forward. "teskas tal'tai-kleon," she said with a slight smirk. _Complements to a worthy opponent._ "I am called Mara."

Eyeing the woman, Sara nodded and relaxed her hold on the man still in her grasp, nearly laughing as he scurried away. She had forgotten how much fun role-playing was. Had she not been tracking him as he made his way through the crowd, she would have missed the figure inching his way toward her unsuspecting coworkers. Grissom had crouched down to retrieve something from his kit, leaving his back completely exposed, and Greg's attention had wandered to a nearby woman who appeared to be clad only in body paint.

With the crowd around them still talking amongst itself, Sara doubted either would hear even a shouted warning. Sara's companion saw her tense, and followed her gaze. "naDev cha'maH cha' joQDu' tu'lu," Mara muttered. _ Something is not quite right._ As Sara began making her way through the crowd, she felt a familiar weapon pushed into her hand. A cold smile settled across her features. Just as the would-be assailant reached Grissom and raised his weapon to deliver a mortal blow, Sara stepped between them, catching the downward strike on her own blade. Grissom paled slightly at the sound, and Greg's attention was pulled away from Paint Girl. Sara jerked her head, indicating that the two get the hell out of the way.

Several moved to intervene, but Sara called them off. "jIbechrup may' viols," she said. _The battle is mine. I crave only the blood of the enemy_. Turning back to the owner of the blade currently trapped in her own, she continued. "Seymour Johnson," Sara said in a deadly voice, recognizing him from the interview. "bIwogh." _You go too far._

They disengaged, and began circling each other warily.

"This targ has come to take us prisoner!" Seymour shouted, panicking.

"yIHarQo'! nepwI' ghaH!" Sara countered. _Do not believe him! He is a liar!_ "He is responsible for the death of four innocents!"

"You don't have any proof," he blustered. "How do you explain me being able to kill four people in the space of a few hours!"

Sara looked pityingly at him. "'Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man', Seymour."

"pa'jIHpu'be'" he stammered. _I wasn't there._

Sara didn't believe him, and he knew it. "We have evidence placing you at each of the four crime scenes," she stated, her face expressionless.

Seymour gulped audibly. "pIch vighajbe'." _It's not my fault._

"qaStaHnuq, Seymour?" Sara taunted. _What happened?_ "Couldn't handle the teasing anymore? Decided to get rid of them once and for all? You pujwI'!" _Weakling._

Seymour drew back as if she had slapped him. "jIjatlhpa' jatlh Homvey," he snarled. _The stars will talk before I will!_

"Do'Ha'," Sara replied, keeping her weapon leveled at his throat. _That is unfortunate._ She looked around her, gauging the space she would have for an all-out fight. Glancing at Grissom, she smiled and winked, almost laughing aloud at the disbelieving expression on his face. She turned her full attention back to Seymour. "bljeghbe'chug vaj blHegh," she instructed. _Surrender or die!_

"jeghbe thlInganpu," he sneered. _Klingons do not surrender._

Sara rolled her eyes as she was suddenly struck by the absolute absurdity of the moment. She had forgotten how utterly ridiculous Klingons sounded when they were psyching themselves up for a battle. Definitely a male-dominated society.

Even as these thoughts ran through her head, she widened her stance and took a firmer grip on her weapon. Though she hadn't used a _bat'leth_ since college, the curved blade was still a reassuring weight in her hands. Hours of practice sessions with her fellow geeks had given her good muscle memory, and even fifteen years later, she was confident in her ability. Looking at Seymour, she noted that his grip on the large weapon was less than certain. It looked brand new, and Sara was willing to wager that he had either bought it recently, or had only kept it around for show. The crowd had pulled back until Sara and Seymour were in the center of a sort of ring.

Sara didn't really want to fight him. Not because she was afraid, but because she feared he would get hurt. "yIDoghQo'," she chided. _Don't be silly_. "You don't want to fight me. I will kill you and Fek'lhr will grind your bones for the rest of eternity."

Unfortunately, it seemed like the Fates were not with her.

"bItu Hpa' bIHeghjaja!" Seymour shouted, rushing at Sara. _Death before shame!_ Their blades came together with a ringing clash.

"Killing you will ensure my place in Sto-Vo-Kor," he panted, lunging clumsily at her. Sara parried easily spinning away again.

"You're deluding yourself, Seymour," she said sadly. "You lost your honor the first time you killed, stabbing Brian Jessup in the back. You will never serve the Black Fleet of the afterlife."

Sara stopped talking as she strategically retreated under the onslaught of blows from her opponent. She did not respond to any of the insults he threw her way. Though it was the custom to yell insults and challenges at an opponent, she had always thought it was a waste of breath. She was quite content to let him take the offensive and wear himself out; plus, she often found that her unusual silence unnerved her opponent. It was one of the tactics she had needed when facing larger, stronger opponents, but in this case it was a merely a mechanism to keep herself from hurting him.

Seymour kept swinging wildly and repeatedly, displaying minimal skill but an almost rabid determination. Sara was able to block him with little difficulty, but was reviewing her options rapidly. She knew she couldn't stave him off indefinitely, and sweat was trickling down her cheeks, making her slightly nervous. If it got in her eyes, she would be at a serious disadvantage. She spotted a chance and lunged in; Seymour stumbled back. She tried to wipe her face on her sleeve while he recovered.

She wasn't quick enough. With a yell of triumph, Seymour darted forward. She stepped back a second too slowly, and was rewarded by a burning pain in her abdomen. Before she could strike, he had darted back, leaving Sara with a knife in her belly.

"meqlo boH qa mech," Seymour taunted. _I smell the burning of your blood._

Leaning against a table for support, Sara repositioned her grip on the _bat'leth_ without lowering her defense, then used her spare hand to staunch the blood flow. Her eyes, boring into Seymour, were merciless. "qoS toma 'epaq qaver," she said softly. _The day is not yet over._ "You attack me with this child's knife, and expect to take the victory. ChoyIv," she spat. _ You are contemptible._

As she slowly stepped forward, everyone could see that Sara was no longer in the mood to toy with this imbecile. Seymour noticed it as well, and after a flurry of strikes at her injured side were successfully blocked even as she continued to advance, he tried to break off and run. Whipping the _bat'leth_ around, she sliced the tendon behind his knee, sending him toppling to the ground to land in an undignified heap. Completing the motion, the blunt end of her weapon connected solidly with his temple. He crumpled without a sound.

Breathing heavily, Sara addressed the crowd, most of whom viewed her with a mixture of fascination and awe. "Secure the prisoner," she ordered. There was a brief pause, then four men leaped to tie up the still-unconscious Seymour. Confident that was taken care of, Sara stumbled backwards a few steps until she could prop herself against a wall. Grissom was immediately at her side. A commotion at the front door drew his attention briefly.

"Greg, go get that officer over here now," he ordered. As Greg left, the woman who had come forward to greet her earlier approached slowly, hands out at her sides.

"tajwIj 'oHbe' chorlIj jeqbogh Dochvetlhe'e," she said. _That is not my dagger protruding from your midsection._"

"No," Sara replied. "qaleghnes." _ I am honored to see you._ She chuckled, but then winced as the motion jarred her injury.

"petaD," the woman ordered curtly. _Stay Still!_ She guided Sara carefully to the floor and placed rolls of bandages on either side of the protruding hilt, stanching some of the blood flow and immobilizing the knife so it wouldn't cause more damage. "My name is Bonnie," she explained. "I'm an ER nurse over at Desert Palms. Once the fight started, I called in an ambulance." At Grissom's startled look, she explained, "Fights like that rarely leave someone uninjured. It was just a precaution, but they should be here in a minute or two."

"Thank you," Grissom said sincerely. His attention turned back to Sara, who was watching him cautiously.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" she asked with a sigh.

Grissom thought about it, eyes narrowing with drawn in brows, before drawling, "I'm not mad at you, Sara. I'm just disappointed…you shouldn't have been put in this position."

Sara blinked, taking a moment to process what he had said, then smiled wanly. "Are you going to ground me? Send me to my room?"

Grissom chuckled as Greg and the officer approached with the paramedics in tow. "We'll discuss that later."

Oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

As they loaded Sara into the ambulance, Bonnie joined them briefly. "You should come by sometime when you're not working, Sara Sidle. We can always use people like you in the Legion."

Sara smiled weakly. "I just might do that, Bonnie, thanks. ghIj qet jaghmeyjaj." _ May your enemies run with fear._

"Qapla', Sara!" _ Success!_

Bonnie stood there watching until the ambulance drove out of sight, and then went back inside to help deal with the aftermath.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Final Frontier

See Chapter 1 for the shiny disclaimer 

Chapter 4: Epilogue

* * *

Grissom and Sara watched as Seymour Johnson was escorted out of the courtroom. They had matched the evidence collected at the scenes to Seymour's uniform, and the blood recovered from the hilt of the dagger indicated that it had been used in all four murders. Sara had experienced a moment of panic when she realized that she had been stabbed with a potentially dirty knife, but all four victims had tested clean for any transmissible bloodborne pathogens. 

The defense had valiantly argued that his client was mentally unstable due to traumatic events in his childhood, but the jury was unmoved. Seymour's peers had found him guilty on all four counts of first-degree murder, and he had been sentenced to four consecutive life sentences with no chance of parole.

"I'm glad that's over," Sara said with a sigh. Nearly a month had passed since that day at the convention and Sara had all but recovered, though she still moved carefully and favored her side a bit. Grissom stood and offered her a hand up.

"It's such a waste," Grissom agreed as he helped her to her feet. "Four lives gone, and for what? Revenge?"

"I think the Klingons may have had it right after all," she said. "bortaS blr jablu'Dl'reH QaQqu'nay'." Meeting his eyes, she translated. "Revenge is a dish which is best served cold."

* * *

A/N: Okay, if this story didn't practically scream "Author is a GIANT GEEK," I'm not sure what would. But I'm not a geek…noooo not I! I **never** went to see First Contact dressed up as a Klingon, or anything as silly as that! No way! And I most certainly did not make up martial arts weapons forms for the bat'leth and have mock-battles with my friends. That would just be super-geeky! I just look back and blame my parents for letting me do that kind of thing. Aren't they supposed to keep you from drowning in geekiness?  Regardless, I hope everyone had fun with this. I surely did! 

And for any who were wondering, Fek'lhr is the beast that guards the dwelling place of the dishonored dead.


End file.
